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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25408033">If You Call</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/loveandwarandmagick/pseuds/loveandwarandmagick'>loveandwarandmagick</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Book 2: Wayward Son, Breaking Up &amp; Making Up, Communication, Hopeful Ending, I'm so sorry, M/M, Magic, Non-Consensual Kissing, Post-Watford (Simon Snow), Relationship Issues, they need to talk about things</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 03:34:26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,459</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25408033</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/loveandwarandmagick/pseuds/loveandwarandmagick</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>'Sleep comes when the sun rises, and he can feel the bright burn of light even with his eyes closed. It’s uncomfortable; it always has been.<br/>But leaving his curtains open while he sleeps is the closest he’s felt to Simon in months.'</p><p> </p><p>The one where Simon tells Baz he can't do their relationship anymore, and Baz doesn't take it so well. Communication is hard, but trying not to love him for the sake of both of them is harder.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>53</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>If You Call</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>tw: there's non-con kissing , if that triggers anyone ! please proceed carefully</p><p>also, this is very loosely based off the song, 'if you call' by angie mcmahon, if you'd like to listen to that &lt;3</p><p>apologies for being gone so long, i've been a bit dry on words n' burnt out. promise there's more light-hearted stuff on the way after this</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p><b> <em>Simon</em> </b> </p><p>Simon can’t sleep.</p><p>Normally, he’d be tossing and turning, panicking about all the lost hours, but he can’t summon the energy to do anything but let the waves of panic roll through him. He wraps his arm tighter around the pillow by his side, wishing it was Baz and relieved that it isn’t at the same time. </p><p>If it were Baz, he’d feel it the second Simon tightened his arms, always waking with a mouthful of questions, eyes full of concern. His dry tone does nothing to disguise how much he cares. Simon wonders how it ever did, all those years ago, turning over again. The pillow lays abandoned at his back.</p><p>He doesn’t know what to do without Baz. He doesn’t know what to do with what they have either, though. </p><p>All the care. So much of it that it drowns him. Simon feels like he’s in the middle of the ocean most days - he can’t afford to take Baz down with him, and can’t figure out if their relationship is the ocean or the drowning things in it.</p><p>He’d grown up believing they would fight to the death, and then he’d kissed him and saved his life instead. And now, Baz does that for him, everyday. Saving him, over and over, even if he doesn’t realize. </p><p>Simon’s already drowning, and he knows already where they lay. He won’t take Baz down with him. </p><p> </p><p>
  <b> <em>Baz</em> </b>
</p><p>It’s hard to sleep alone in this flat. </p><p>It’s hard to sleep most days, without Simon. The bed’s always too cold unless he’s in it - heating up the shared space even from a distance. </p><p>That’s what they have these days - a hand stretched out to capture the warmth. Simon, with his back turned away, wings folding in on himself. Holding him out of reach, no matter how small the bed is. </p><p>Baz had a king sized mattress at the start of the month. He’s replaced it with a smaller one since then, both because Simon rarely comes around, and because he can’t bear to feel so far from him when he does. As if the distance is entirely physical. As if Simon doesn’t feel a million miles away even when he allows Baz to touch him.</p><p>Something’s fracturing, now. He knows Simon’s broken already, but there’s something else going with it, something that he’s afraid to name. </p><p>Trying to hold on feels like grasping armfuls of empty air, coming back with nothing but feeling the burn of trying anyway. Sleep comes when the sun rises, and he can feel the bright burn of light even with his eyes closed. It’s uncomfortable; it always has been.</p><p>But leaving his curtains open while he sleeps is the closest he’s felt to Simon in months. </p><p> </p><p>
  <b> <em>Simon</em> </b>
</p><p>When Baz comes around the next week, he knows already what has to be done. He can’t keep driving wedges between them and expect him to stay. Cutting it now will save them both the pain. </p><p>He walks in now with a mug of tea that’ll just go cold on the table - Simon’s got no taste for tea anymore. It used to taste sweet, a good thing to look forward to during school. But what good is there to look forward to when he’s trudging through bleakness to get there?  His magic is gone and tea tastes like watered-down milk, coating his throat until he feels like he can’t breathe.</p><p>Cider is sharper, cleaner tasting. It tastes like the way he used to be, slurred and hurried, blurred at the edges because he always had <em>something</em> to do. It tastes like the insults he and Baz used to sling at each other, bitter because of their content, sweet because it made them familiar to each other. Revealed flashes of vulnerability, gave them the chance to speak, even if it hurt like hell.</p><p>Now, Simon can barely look at him without feeling like retching. Baz is another cup of tea, a “ <em> used to” </em> that was sweet. He’s unbearably understanding, and he still looks at Simon like he’s the center of the universe. But holding his gaze feels too much like looking in a mirror and seeing everything he’s lacking - everything Baz could have, but chooses not to. </p><p>He sets the mug on the table, standing in front of the television because he knows that Simon won’t look away from it otherwise. </p><p>“Simon,” he says. Baz rarely calls Simon by his last name anymore. Hearing his name makes him prickle, tensing as he sits up. The inside of his chest feels crowded and hot, as the words threaten to spill. It’s not easy, but it is simple. It’ll hurt but it’ll be a relief, for both of them. Simon, so he can stop feeling guilty, Baz, so he can live the life he deserves. </p><p>“Baz. I-” </p><p>He stops, cut off by the shift in Baz’s stare. He always looks more alert when Simon starts talking, probably bothered by the consistent silences between them. It’s not that he doesn’t have the words - he has plenty of them - he just doesn’t know what’s worth saying. He doesn’t know how to talk about the way it feels everyday. </p><p>To feel like his brain is melting apart, tearing at the edges and fraying his sentences. Mincing words that he doesn’t have. He doesn’t know how to explain that the word <em> love </em> doesn’t fit right in his mouth, that he feels like he’s making a mess of it all. That Baz deserves better, someone who will ask him all the questions that Simon can’t manage.</p><p>He’s worthless without magic. At least when he had it, he could speak. At least then, he could get off the fucking couch, and try his best. At least then, he didn’t feel like a ghost. Or like the body it inhabited, cast aside and left for vacancy. </p><p>Now… now. Nothing’s the same.</p><p>“Simon.”</p><p>He squeezes his eyes shut. </p><p>“I don’t want this,” he blurts. His breath gets caught somewhere in his chest, halfway out his throat. Baz can probably hear his heart racing, hear the fact that he’s not breathing. Simon can’t even look at him.</p><p><em>Say something, anything </em>.</p><p>“This,” Baz replies, voice dull like it hasn’t been since they were kids. “What <em> this </em>, Snow?”</p><p>His tone fills in everything he’s not saying, all the lethality in it cutting Simon deeper than if he’d been specific about it.</p><p>“I- This isn’t right. I just can’t. You can’t keep doing this,” he mumbles to himself.<em> “To yourself,” </em>is omitted on purpose. Baz would never admit that Simon was dragging him down, even if Simon knows it for sure. So he doesn’t invite the rebuttal, and it remains something he never says.</p><p>Baz has always been smarter than Simon though. He’s always been able to read in between the lines. Too good, he’s always been too good. It’s just taken Simon this long to accept that he doesn’t deserve that.</p><p>“Doing <em> what </em> ?” He snarls back, anger breaking free <em> finally </em>. He plants himself firmly between Simon and the television. Simon sits up with a sigh, dragging the thin blanket he’d had on with him over his shoulders. Baz’s eyes drop to it quickly before he looks back up at Simon, face demanding.</p><p>“This. <em> Us </em>. I don’t want it.”</p><p>He says this so he doesn’t have to say the rest. <em> I’m not enough, I’ll never be enough </em>. </p><p>“Is this you ending things?” Baz asks, voice dropping deathly quiet. Simon winces, wishing back the haughty tone from moments ago. It could’ve been simple, if not for the drop in Baz’s voice, reminiscent of the tone he uses when they’re in bed together on good days.</p><p><em>Don’t think of that </em>, his mind whispers at him, but he’s already gone, mind drifting. </p><p>A memory, golden sunlight spilling through the open window. Baz started to sleep with the curtains open, said it was Simon’s fault for getting him used to it. </p><p> </p><p>
  <b> <em>Baz</em> </b>
</p><p>All the galloping anger in his chest has diminished. Everything he feels when he looks at Simon has been extinguished to a whisper, a flicker. He’s so angry - at the distance, at the unfairness of it. At the look in Simon’s eyes, but mostly at the years that haunted and gifted it to him.</p><p>He’s a graveyard, now. Worn and tattered, carrying more death than life, but still so fucking beautiful. </p><p>Baz is just a spectre trapped in its walls.</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Simon</em>
  </b>
</p><p>He forces his mind back to the present. The pale glow of the television is nothing like sunlit mornings, and Baz’s face is crumpled in on itself, so unlike the days when he looks open. Jagged and raw, his expression shifts as everything he’s fighting back appears anyway. Simon can’t bear it. </p><p>“You don’t need this. You don’t deserve this.”</p><p>“That’s <em> my </em>decision to make, Snow. This isn’t about you.” </p><p>Anger flares in Simon’s chest, the feeling so achingly familiar that he leans into it. It’s the warmest he’s felt in <em> so </em> long, just the semblance of who he used to be. He piles into Baz’s space, wings spread wide behind him. <em> It’s almost like magic </em> , he thinks, <em> this angry, bright part of me.  </em></p><p>It feels so beautiful, but the look on Baz’s face scalds it away into shame.</p><p> </p><p>
  <b> <em>Baz</em> </b>
</p><p>He’s so much like his old self, in this moment, that Baz would do anything to keep him like this - he’d do anything to keep him at all. If it would get him off the stupid couch, he’d pick fights with Simon every day. If it didn’t hurt both of them more than it helped.</p><p> </p><p>
  <b> <em>Simon</em> </b>
</p><p>“Isn’t it? Aren’t we supposed to make decisions together? Or are you going to use this as another way to prove you’re more competent than me?” </p><p>He flinches, (into it, not away.) It must have hurt - he’s always throwing that in Simon’s face. Hearing his own words always bothered him in school - it should do the same now. Simon doesn’t want to hurt him though, he just wants him to go. </p><p>“What the fuck are you talking about?” Baz snarls. Simon’s wings spread out in response, tail lashing angrily around them. He makes the conscious effort to still it, wrapping his hand around it when it flies into his palm.</p><p>“You don’t <em> need </em> this,” Simon tries. <em> You don’t need me </em>. </p><p>“Go, Baz. Let me do this.” Defeat stings his throat, but keeps the tears at bay.</p><p>“Christ I thought you left behind your savior complex when the world stopped needing saving.”</p><p>Simon still instantly at his words, blood running cold inside him. The world tilts sideways. The room narrows to Baz’s face, to the spiteful, horrified mix in his gaze.</p><p>“What did you say?” Simon whispers, feeling his heart stutter pathetically. Baz’s eyes have gone a little wide with anger, before they narrow into that cruel, unrelenting shape that Simon’s so familiar with. </p><p>He doesn’t repeat what he said. In the silence, Simon recalls the last time he saw that look on Baz’s face. </p><p>Christmas break at the Pitch Manor. A kiss to save his life, and then all the ones after it to break the harshness they’ve threaded into themselves, to undo years of cruelty. Simon kissed him because he <em> wanted </em> to, in a way that was unfamiliar to him, but grew to be normal, a form of punctuating a sentence, unlocking a door.</p><p>He can still see it now, in the lines of Baz’s body. <em> Home </em>. </p><p>You can’t expect home to be there when you wreck everything around you. </p><p>“Baz-”</p><p>His voice is deadly quiet when he speaks. “Why don’t you save yourself before you try to save me? Why do you think ending this is going to be the only thing that helps?”</p><p> </p><p>
  <b> <em>Baz</em> </b>
</p><p>He feels the world collapse around them as he watches Simon’s face fall.</p><p>His voice was tight with anger earlier, easier to stomach. Now, it comes through scalded, not even a whisper when he says, “Get the fuck out.”</p><p>He doesn’t step forward or argue. Back then, this would have ended with a kiss or a fight. Kissing used to work; when Baz was weak for anything he could get and fighting hurt less than not holding him. When Simon was more himself, when he let Baz near enough to him to do either of those things.</p><p>“Simon-”</p><p>“<em>Go </em>.”</p><p>He does. </p><p>He could go to his flat. He <em> should </em>go to his flat. Instead, he lets his feet carry him downtown, heavy footsteps echoing along the pavement. The world is full of neon lights, but his vision tunnels and blurs the rest, leaving him in the dark.</p><p> </p><p>
  <b> <em>Simon</em> </b>
</p><p>He was expecting it to hurt. He anticipated the argument, knowing it was bound to happen. He didn’t expect Baz to say that. </p><p>He didn’t expect him to make sense. He feels light headed suddenly, and he sinks to his knees to gasp for breath as his mind spins. <em> Fuck </em>. </p><p> </p><p>
  <b> <em>Baz</em> </b>
</p><p>He remembers this bar from after graduation, when he finally took Fiona up on her offer to get him drunk. It didn’t take much - top shelf only. Now, he’s shovelling out money for the cheapest drinks, trying to keep his wits as he watches the people dance around him. </p><p>A couple is illuminated in shades of pink and red, and for a second, he aches so fiercely that he has to hold his chest. The vision is a memory and a nightmare all in one, the ghost of something he once had and the reminder that it’s gone. </p><p>He can feel the presence of someone next to him before he even hears him ask, “You alright, mate?” </p><p>At the sound of the accent, so achingly familiar, hope burns a solid hole through Baz’s chest.  But when he looks up, it’s some pale, lanky man - face stretched out and somber looking. Nothing like Simon at all.</p><p>The thought is equally relieving and devastating, and he finds his heart stuttering out a furious beat in response. </p><p>“Hey. All good?”</p><p>“No,” Baz manages, the word falling out on instinct. The man gives an amused smile at that, pity in his gaze that softens the mean quirk of his lips. </p><p>“Rough night?” He asks next, and Baz can’t help but look up at him again. The alcohol blurs his vision a bit, turning the world into a muted, distant thing. His vision is swimming - the only thing clear about the man in front of him is the sympathy on his face.</p><p>“Yeah. Yeah, rough,” Baz agrees, and the man clucks. </p><p>“I’m… well. Suppose you won’t remember my name tomorrow,” he laughs dryly, eyes dancing over Baz’s profile. “Let me buy you a drink?”</p><p>He manages a wordless nod in response, listening as the man asks the bartender what Baz has been drinking. </p><p>“Cheap whiskey?” He laughs again, softer this time. “Top shelf from now on. You deserve it.”</p><p>Simon’s voice swims in his head. <em> “You don’t deserve this.” </em></p><p>“Thanks,” he chokes, accepting the bottle with a shaky hand. He puts it to his mouth quickly, not even bothering to taste it as it goes down. The man watches with bright eyes, content to wait and let him drink in silence. </p><p>When half the bottle’s gone and Baz manages to pry his mouth off, he finally speaks again. “Wanna talk about it?” </p><p>Baz shakes his head faintly, and then opens his mouth anyway. </p><p> </p><p>
  <b> <em>Simon</em> </b>
</p><p>He’s got to find him. There’s a sick feeling in his stomach, regret burning at the edge of his throat. Pain so fierce, he’s not entirely sure it’s in his head. </p><p>It wasn’t supposed to be a fight. It was going to be mutual acceptance, or a bit of resistance prior to a clean break. He was anticipating upset, not the devastation on Baz’s face.<em> It was supposed to be relief.  </em></p><p> He just needs to get to him, apologize. </p><p>He doesn’t know how to say anything he means. He doesn’t want another fight. He just wants a good moment, another chance to sleep with Baz’s hand buried in his hair, head on his chest. Another kiss, one of the good ones where he feels like the world could collapse around them, and nothing could pull him away. </p><p>An early morning to hold him again, to be held. Simon never knew how much he missed him until he had to carve him out. There, beyond all the guilt and the pain, was the missing. He didn’t expect it so soon, didn’t expect this to feel like a mistake. </p><p><em>Baz</em>. </p><p>He grabs his coat and changes into actual trousers, shoving his feet into the boots by the door and wandering out. Baz’s magic is humming all through the corridor, another ghost in the world that haunts Simon. It’s easy to follow though, even if Simon doesn’t have magic of his own anymore. It leaves a brighter streak in the room, a trail that he suspects only he can see. </p><p>Magic is there, regardless of whether you speak with it or not. He just has to train his eyes a bit more to see it than he used to. The thought carries him out the door, feet moving on their own along the path that feels warmer. Every time his skin starts to prickle with cold air, he shifts onto a warmer path, taking it as inclination that he’s meant to find him. That he wants to be found.</p><p> </p><p>
  <b> <em>Baz</em> </b>
</p><p>The lights are swimming, Baz’s vision is drifting in and out. He’s had too much to drink, he knows by the burning feeling in his chest, the heavy feeling settled behind his forehead. </p><p>The man in front of him keeps conjuring up drinks - not magically, though it might as well be with how quickly he’s procuring them. Baz asked for his name earlier again, bothered by not knowing it, but he’d been laughed off without a proper answer.</p><p>He should get home. The thought burns the longer it sits in his mind, stagnant and painful in his chest. It swirls with memories, <em> home </em> so synonymous with <em> Simon </em> at this point that the thought of them being separate entities is unthinkable. </p><p>Home is their room at Watford, eight years of sharing a tiny space and wishing it was even smaller. It’d taken him long enough to realize that it was only home because Simon was there, the same way his flat feels more like a detour on the way to his real home. </p><p>He thinks he might be crying, feels tears filling his eyes and spilling heavy over his cheeks. But then his face goes numb and he takes another drink and the feeling fades. The man says something, places his hand on Baz’s shoulder and then slides it down to his elbow.</p><p>Baz closes his eyes and drinks in the contact. If he pretends, it’s almost like Simon. The hand is too big though, too cold and calloused to feel anything like the warmth in Simon’s. <em> So alive </em> , he’d told him, and meant with everything in him. The heat of his hands was proof of it. Not magic, but <em> life</em>, coursing so abundantly through him that Baz had ached with want - to have his own, to hold Simon’s.</p><p><em>Aches. </em> The present tense of it presses down on his shoulders, makes him lean into the grounding touch on his elbow. He shouldn’t take it - even in his crashing mind, he knows how misleading it is - but he feels like the world is spinning out from underneath him and this is his tether.</p><p>He tenses his body, holding himself carefully to brace for the impact, and then the man’s lips are on his. Too thin, too cold. Moving for the sake of the kiss, to pour lust and want into it, as opposed to the press of Simon’s mouth, the way they kiss more because they can’t help the way they fold into each other. Kisses that speak for them, that hold sonnets and declarations, and apologies for a lifetime. </p><p>“No,” Baz manages, mumbling against the man’s mouth. In response, he tightens his hand on Baz’s elbow, whispering something sharp into Baz’s mouth that burns and tastes like stale liquor. </p><p>He makes a weak noise and tries to become sharp, to make himself imposing and too fearful to be near, but it doesn’t work. The man growls into his mouth and tears unfurl again in Baz’s eyes, dying flowers abandoning their petals. </p><p>He opens his eyes, eager to release the stinging liquid, desperate to get away, and sees a hazy image of Simon, too distant to be more than a dream. </p><p> </p><p>
  <b> <em>Simon</em> </b>
</p><p>Baz’s eyes are wide, pools of black pupil and tears, and Simon is burning up, reminded of the forest during Christmas. The unyielding heat pressing at his back, the strobe of red flames flickering over his expression. It’s the same as then, as they lock eyes across the floor, over the man’s head. </p><p>Simon’s moving as soon as he takes in the scene, the clear desperation in the frame of Baz’s body, the distant look in his eyes, and the man’s large hand wrapped tightly around his arm. </p><p>It takes him less than a moment to get there, to hear Baz’s concealed chorus of <em> no </em> , hidden between hungry kisses. It takes him only a second to get a hand around the guy’s shoulder, another to wrench him away with a growl of, "<em>He</em><em> said no, get the fuck off him.” </em></p><p>Seconds pass at a stalemate. Simon feels entire cities crumbling inside him, all of his foundations burning down with grief and anger. The guy grumbles something and spits on the floor at Simon’s feet, disgust lacing his tone as he slurs obscenities at them. Baz sinks into his arms, weak and sobbing in a way that Simon rarely sees. </p><p><em>"Love</em>,” he slurs, “<em>Simon </em> .” Every word is a gasp torn from his mouth, a breath and a sob caught into one word. “ <em> I’m sorry </em> , <em> I’m sorry </em> , <em> I’m sorry </em>.” Every word drives a sharp pain between Simon’s ribs, knowing he did this, wishing he never did at all.</p><p>“Hey,” he says, desperate to get them out, to fix the fractures in Baz’s face, stop up all the sorrow flowing from his being. “Baz. Hey, let’s go.”</p><p>“I’m <em> sorry </em>,” he gasps again, and Simon holds him tight against his chest as he shuffles them out onto the street, burying his hand in Baz’s hair to anchor him. For each apology, he mumbles assurances over his head, soft spills of words that he can’t help. </p><p>It’s a flash of noise, of lights. Baz is in no state to walk, so Simon hails a taxi and stuffs them both in the backseat, murmuring nonsensical things of comfort under the flash of amber streetlights. The air is blowing cold over them, but Baz's head is leaning in the center of Simon’s chest, arms wrapped tight around his middle. He’s warm, between all the tears and the feeling of guilt that threatens to swallow Simon up.</p><p>He doesn’t even have time to think before they’ve pulled up outside the building.</p><p>“We’re here,” he mumbles against the shell of Baz’s ear, digging around in his coat pocket for his wallet, producing more than enough and handing it over. </p><p>“C’mon Baz, let’s go.”</p><p>He gets up. Rubs his face with his hands, fingers kneading carefully over his tired eyes, knuckles dragging down to rest on his mouth. He presses too hard; Simon can see it in the white tension of his fingers. He reaches out to drag Baz’s hand away, replacing it with his own thumb. Carefully, he wipes at the firm line of his mouth, the lingering alcohol and kiss.</p><p>If they were back at Watford, he might’ve dodged the questions and taken him upstairs and kissed him senseless. They wouldn’t talk about this, or any of their other problems before crawling into bed together, seeking comfort in touch because it was so much safer to be quiet. </p><p>This isn’t Watford though, and Simon’s already dropped the bomb. This is the aftermath, an unavoidable barren landscape that he has to trek through, wading through debris and clearing it. It’s something that they both have to do. </p><p>If it weren’t so difficult to say what he meant, or to stop feeling what he felt, he thinks this might’ve been easier to manage. Somehow, it always comes back to his shortcomings, unable to care for Baz because of how pathetic he is. Unable to say what he means because his thoughts feel more like an attack than reality, but are all too real in the cavern of his mind. </p><p>He thinks of saying any of these things, as they stumble into their flat. He imagines sitting down and having a proper conversation, when Baz isn’t drunk, when he hasn’t been assaulted by some jackass in a club. He thinks of bright morning sunlight and a good feeling in his chest, of the sun feeling warm and Baz’s skin being the cool medium to bring him back to himself. </p><p>And then he comes back to his senses and takes in the world around him - a dim flat and a hollow, residual ache in his chest from almost losing the best thing that’s happened to him. Baz’s eyes are closed where he’s sitting up on the couch, face growing serene as he breathes in the scent of the pillow fabric. </p><p>Simon settles into the other armchair and closes his eyes, falling asleep before he realizes. </p><p> </p><p>
  <b> <em>Baz</em> </b>
</p><p>The sky is clear and bright when he wakes up, sun streaming in through gaps from the skylight in the living room. Simon used to boast about it when they first found this place, and Penelope had glowed effervescently when he admitted to liking it.</p><p>After a few months, Baz had come by and found Simon on a ladder, taping a sheer fabric over the light. The result is a patchy piece of sun, spilling through holes in the sheet and other places where it came untaped. </p><p>If he strains his ears, he can hear the shower over the rumble of the ceiling fan, and smell the sticky humidity of it in the air. He sits up stiffly, wincing at the ache in his head as he moves. “<em> Fuck </em>,” he mumbles under his breath, standing up and staggering towards the front door with his phone and keys. </p><p>He stops when he hears the water cut off, but starts moving after another moment, releasing his grip on the door frame and forcing himself through. Simon wanted him to <em> go </em> , to leave. <em> It’s done </em>, he thinks, and the thought pulls a sound from his chest as he stumbles out.</p><p>His phone goes off as he’s unlocking his front door, and he wastes a minute contemplating whether he should pick it up at all. He does, hurting again at the thought that he’ll have to resign himself to seeing a name besides Simon’s on the screen. </p><p>He blinks down at his phone. Sets it aside on the counter and rubs his eyes, then picks it up again.</p><p>
  <em>Simon: I think we need to talk more about what happened</em>
</p><p>Baz sighs, dragging a hand over his face. Puts his phone down again and picks it up just to stare at the message. Pauses with his fingers over the screen, and sets it down. </p><p>This is him <em> trying </em> to fix it. Baz can’t remember the last time Simon willingly offered to communicate about something. </p><p><em>He could be making the break official </em> , his mind hisses, a sharp reminder of the cliff’s edge he’s standing on. <em> Wouldn’t it be better to find out, though?</em></p><p>He picks up his phone and types <em> “I’ll come by later,” </em>sending it before he can stop himself. He adds a time, figuring eight is good. It’s horrifyingly dark in their flat as soon as the sun goes down - Bunce doesn’t believe in wasting excess energy on lamps and Simon relies on candlelight.</p><p>It’ll be easier if he can’t see him properly, anyway. He shudders thinking of a conversation by fire, thinks of both the forest and after, staring at a fireplace while Simon had tried his best to amend things. He’s trying, Baz remembers. He’s <em> talking </em> willingly, and even if it’s an end to their relationship, it’s a start to Simon’s getting better. </p><p> </p><p>
  <b> <em>Simon</em> </b>
</p><p><em> Eight </em>. </p><p>He has time - to talk to Penny, to collect his thoughts. How to articulate what he means in a way that it won’t be misconstrued, how to say exactly what he means without his brain turning everything poisonous and fearful. </p><p>He has time; he just needs a plan. He needs to figure out what he wants. He knows already that he wants Baz - that’s the one thing that he’s never doubted, even when his sexuality is wavering. </p><p>He wants things to be like they used to be, but doesn’t know how to get there. Eight is probably a good start.</p><p> </p><p>
  <b> <em>Baz</em> </b>
</p><p>He’s been sitting on everything he needs to say for months. Weeks of being unsure, of wondering whether Simon still wanted him around, of <em> waiting </em>. For something to change, to explode, to leave. </p><p>The inevitability of losing is a painful thing, but Baz has never once been unprepared for it. </p><p>He catches a ride on the tube, since his car stayed at Simon’s yesterday. He blinks and they’re stopped where he needs to get off, only a short walk from Simon’s flat. And then he’s standing outside, staring at the front door and deciding whether he should unlock it himself or knock and wait. </p><p>He hears shuffling on the other end, presses his ear to the wood and catches the muffled end of Bunce’s voice. Something about her leaving for the night. Baz moves out of the way just in time for Penelope to come barreling through the door, Simon following after her with a hand wrapped around her shoulder.</p><p>“Let me know,” she says, words petering out as she watches Baz carefully. To her credit, her face stays impassive, even as Simon’s crumples. </p><p>“Bunce,” he strains, barely managing to keep his voice even. </p><p>She responds, “<em>Baz</em>,” voice gentler than it’s been in other moments. He’s appreciative of it, but isn’t sure whether that bodes well. He doesn’t have time to contemplate it as she moves around him, sparing one last glance at the joint huddle of them by the door - opposites, one of them with his shoulders spread wide, and the other hunched inwards. </p><p>They move inside like that, close enough for Baz to be reminded of magnets, of a pulling effect. The way he’d follow Simon anywhere, he’s not sure that there’s <em> not </em>some sort of magic working there.</p><p>He looks carefully at the sofa, hoping desperately that Simon will want to have this conversation in the kitchen so he doesn’t have to stare at the same skylight. A sick feeling spreads through his chest, filtering through to his stomach and settling, heavy and uncomfortable in his core. Simon takes one look at him, cautious and burning, and starts off down the hall towards the rooms.</p><p>“Oh,” Baz chokes, confused. Simon turns to face him as they stop in front of the door to his room, eyes turned towards the floor. </p><p>“Is this fine? I don’t want to risk Penny coming back early or anything and interrupting.”</p><p>Simon doesn’t lift his eyes, so Baz forces himself to agree out loud. Simon nods stiffly in response, shoving the door open and picking a spot near the headboard to occupy, as Baz sits carefully across from him. </p><p>After a beat of silence, Simon speaks.</p><p>“I don’t-” he starts, voice raw and quiet, and a piece of Baz falls apart. “I don’t know how to do this.” It’s a quiet admission, punctuated by further silence that Baz doesn’t know how to fill. </p><p>What’s the right thing to say? It’d be easier if he could just reach out and take Simon’s hand, but he’s got them tucked under his legs. It’d be easier if he felt like he could hold his hand at all, if he didn’t feel guilty even considering it.</p><p>Words are easy, for Baz. It’s just hard to say them, to get Simon to understand and dig through the bits that he throws in out of self-defense, the things he adds to make it seem like he’s apathetic. He’s starting to think that maybe Simon doesn’t deserve that, though. That maybe he makes things so much harder on them both just out of fear.</p><p>“Simon-”</p><p>“It’s… hard. This. Everything is hard, right now. I get up in the mornings and don’t feel like I used to, and I wish that I did, but I don’t. Nothing feels the way it used to, and just thinking that knocks me over, Baz.”</p><p>His eyes are still downcast, half-lidded and concealed, but Baz can hear the tears in his words. The meaning hits him all too hard. He chooses his response carefully, sifting through words to find the best thing to say.</p><p>“I know,” he starts, pausing as Simon looks up at him. His blue eyes are red-rimmed and miserable, searching. “It… doesn’t <em> have </em> to be the way it used to, Simon. It’s better now. You’re not constantly burning up anymore. Life isn’t about the war, or fighting, or dying.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <b> <em>Simon</em> </b>
</p><p>He’s so unbearably right that it hurts, and Simon can’t stop the tears from piling up in his throat. </p><p>“It just feels <em> wrong </em>,” he chokes, hands trembling when he moves them out from under him. “I don’t feel like myself. The world feels backward, everything’s just so… open.”</p><p>“It’s scary,” Baz agrees. “But it’s <em> free </em>. And you have Bunce. You have a therapist you can go to, and… you have me.”</p><p>The words land between them, deadened by the events of yesterday, and Simon takes a shuddering breath. </p><p>He whispers back, “You have me,” and means it entirely, feels it in every ounce of him. “You do. If you still want me, if you can stand me.”</p><p>His eyebrow dips, every ounce of frustration and pain in his expression disappearing in an instant. What’s left is this cold sort of awareness, the kind that makes Simon feel unbearably seen. </p><p>“Do you think that I don’t want you anymore? I told you before, you’re my choice. It’s not changing.” His voice is incredulous, genuinely so confused that Simon wants to cry with relief.</p><p>Something solid sinks in his chest, crawling up his throat and forcing him into silence. The first response that comes to mind is <em> yes, why would you? </em></p><p>No matter how many times he’s said it. Whispers hidden in the dark, or gentle words tucked between lips. He hasn’t said <em> the </em>words, the ones that are too much for both of them to fathom, but there nonetheless. Simon loves him so much that it aches, takes his breath away when he imagines that feeling being redirected onto him. </p><p>“It’s hard,” he says. It comes out a hoarse whisper, but he can’t manage to clear his throat. His hand lies in between them on the bed, and he hopes with everything in him that Baz will take it without him having to ask. <em> I’m here, </em> he wants to say. <em> I don’t want to go, but how can you stand to do this? </em></p><p>He takes a shuddering breath, lets it pools between them. “It’s hard,” he begins again, “I don’t know <em>why</em> you want to deal with it while it’s hard. You don’t have to do <em>this</em>.”</p><p>Baz laughs. It’s a heavy huff, all incredulity and no humor. It happens again, progressively becoming tighter, laced with something Simon finds unfamiliar. He looks away, fingers wiping along his jaw. </p><p>“Baz?”</p><p>At his name, he responds by turning his head, and Simon inhales sharply at the tears running down his face in calm streams, the way he tries to blink them back as soon as he looks at Simon.</p><p>“I don’t want to lose you,” he whispers roughly, another huff falling heavy from his mouth as he swipes the back of his hand over his jaw again. Simon can barely breathe. “I know you don’t feel like things are alright. I know everything’s a lot, but Simon, I’m <em> here </em>.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <b> <em>Baz </em> </b>
</p><p>Words are not the easiest thing for Simon Snow to work with. They never have been. He’s never been one to be swayed by them either, but he listens like nobody else. </p><p>Baz sees the exact moment his words land, the way his chest cracks open, a wide expanse of emotion flooding his features. He leans forward hesitantly, falling apart in his own space like he can’t bear the thought of coming closer.</p><p>Baz opens his arms, letting him come forward without pressing him. He’d never <em> try </em> to force anything onto him. He’d gone through enough of that for the first years of his life. </p><p><em>"Love</em>,” he whispers, and Simon becomes undone, folding himself into Baz’s arms like it’s all he’s wanted to do for weeks. Maybe this is what he needed - the push to move forward, for both of them.</p><p>Baz holds him tight to his chest, stroking away the fear bursting from him, all the uncertainty and sadness. If he could expel it somehow, restore Simon to however he felt best, he’d do anything. He’d give it all up if it meant Simon could be happy.</p><p>He tells him that now, whispering it against his forehead, careful so that his lips only brush, not pressing, nothing to add to the forces breaking Simon apart. </p><p>“You don’t have to stay. But I’m here if you’ll have me,” Baz whispers, the words scraping the roof of his mouth, imaginary claws digging into his tongue to keep from being spoken. As much as it hurts him to open the possibility, he wants the best for Simon. Even if it means that he’ll be miserable for the rest of his life.</p><p><em>Not miserable </em> , his mind whispers, <em> broken. He’s the brightest thing in your life </em>.</p><p>Still, <em> still</em>. He waits for Simon’s answer. Waits until he breathes, until he’s strong enough to pull back on his own. </p><p>“I don’t want you to go.”</p><p>“I don’t want to go.”</p><p>A beat of silence, made more of uncertainty than a lack of words. The silence dissipates under ragged breathing, the sound of a soul fractured in two, desperately trying to piece themselves together. Another moment where neither of them speaks. Baz watches Simon watch him, wonders if this is another lull in the ongoing war in their heads.</p><p>Decides then, that it doesn’t matter. He’ll take the lows in stride just as he adores the highs. In the end, if it’s Simon, it’s worth it.</p><p>“Then <em> stay</em>.”</p><p>And it’s enough that he’s said that, that they’re both <em> trying</em>. </p><p>“Always.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>thank you for reading &lt;3 i appreciate every single one of y'all for giving me a chance </p><p>take care of yourselves, stay safe and healthy </p><p>find me on tumblr here: <a href="url">https://loveandwarandmagick.tumblr.com/</a></p></blockquote></div></div>
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